


Worst

by leere



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leere/pseuds/leere
Summary: Pete doesn't have anyone to kiss on New Years. Neither does Patrick. You know where this is going.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for last new years but didn't finish in time, so I'm posting now. First half was written in Dec. 2015, and the second half was written right now, on 1/1/17, at approximately 1 am. You'll be able to tell, because the writing quality, while it should have improved with time, ended up getting worse because I stopped caring. And also because it's 1 am. I'm so tired, dude.
> 
> First fic of 2017, obviously - happy new year, everybody. Damn, I'm going on three years of Peterick fic. That's crazy. Anyway, hope you enjoy :)

So Patrick's talking to a girl. And she's beautiful, she's got a pixie cut that's dyed a soft pink and she's little, quite a few inches shorter than him, and she's got warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when her cute little nose screws up in a laugh, and she's giggling at all his jokes, and yeah, it's pretty great. They're talking about Bowie, too, and she actually agrees with him when he says that Low is just a little better than Hunky Dory, and that's fucking amazing, nobody ever agrees with him on that. A part of him is certain that she's only ever heard, like, one Bowie song, and that she's just playing along so that she can get into his pants, but at the same time, he honestly wouldn't really mind if that was the case.

But then he notices something just behind her and he completely loses interest in the flirty way she's biting her lip. 

She's chattering in his ear, but Patrick's focused on Pete now. He's sitting alone on a couch, a beer between his thighs, his hands loosely grasping it. He's staring at the ground, tapping his foot to the beat of the 50 Cent song that's playing, only he's a half step out of time. He looks fucking miserable.

"Um," Patrick gives the girl a small smile, "hey, good talking to you, but I'm gonna go check up on a friend? I'll catch up with you later."

The girl frowns, confusion and a little bit of annoyance clouding her pretty little face, but then she's nodding and shrugging. She leans in close, hot breath against Patrick's ear, and says, "Yeah, sure, definitely. See you."

She walks off, and Patrick watches her ass for a moment, can't help it, she's wearing cut off jean short shorts and it's just so bouncy - but then some guy blocks his view of her and he remembers Pete.

He pushes his way through the crowd until he's in front of Pete, and the bassist looks up at him briefly, his eyes lighting up, before he drops his gaze and bashfully scuffs his shoe against the floor. Bashful Pete is not something Patrick's used to, so he knows something's definitely up. When Pete glances up again, he sees caring blue eyes and a reassuring little smile.

"Hey," Patrick says over the music, sitting down and setting a tentative hand on Pete's knee. "What's up?"

Pete's silent, lips pressed together in a hard line, and Patrick studies his face. He's trying to search his downcast eyes, but he's having a hard time. Pete's usually an open book, every emotion playing out on his tanned face and in his tired eyes, and if not there, Patrick gets into his head every time Pete hands him a notebook full of lyrics. Right now, though, Patrick can tell he's anxious by the incessant shaking of his leg - and that's about it.

"Dude," Patrick says, leaning in close, "what's wrong?"

Pete closes his eyes and exhales hard, then opens them again and shakes his head, smiling, although it's a lot closer to bitter than genuine. "It's stupid, I'm a fucking idiot, but, like - I haven't not had someone to kiss in, like, in years, but this year, you know, I don't have anyone, I'm alone, and, I dunno, it's just. It's a fucking bummer."

"I'm alone, too," Patrick tells him, unhelpfully, he's sure, but it coaxes a wry smile out of Pete.

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"Being alone on New Years?" Pete nods, and Patrick gives a noncommittal little shrug. It does, a little, he's had Anna for the last three years, but he hasn't thought of it at all tonight until now. "I haven't really thought of it like that," he says, looking around at all the party goers. "I mean, we're not exactly alone, there's, like, a hundred plus people here. I think Kanye's here, actually, somewhere. I was hoping to get to talk to him-"

"I'm not gonna get a new years kiss," Pete says, and he's pouting and his eyebrows are pulled together but the corners of his lips are turned up in a grin. He drops the goofy look and sighs, genuinely forlorn again. He's staring at something, and when Patrick looks, he sees Pete's focused on a pretty blue-haired girl who's wrapped up in the arms of some tatted guy. They're rocking together, slow dancing to Missy Elliot while the couples around them grind and laugh, and Patrick can see, it's obvious - they're in love.

He looks back at Pete, and he knows he's a hopeless romantic, knows he longs for that, knows how sad he is when he's not in a relationship, no matter how chaotic those relationships tend to be. It's not something Patrick easily comprehends; music's always been his one and only, the one constant in his life, something he's loved for as long as he can remember and never given up on. Relationships are nice, he thinks, remembering how much he loved Anna - but he'll never ache for the love and the disaster like Pete does. It's why Pete writes the lyrics, and it's partly why he's always so sad.

"Hey," Patrick says again, scooting closer to Pete, until their thighs are touching, "if you're super bummed about it, I bet there's, like, at least sixty girls here who'd be happy to make out with you. Maybe a couple dudes, too."

"It's not the same if it's not someone special," Pete says, crossing his arms and pouting again.

Patrick ignores him and takes his beer instead, taking a drink and frowning at the taste. He makes a face at Pete. "Dude, why didn't you get something a little classier? There's, like, waiters passing out glasses of champagne everywhere, why the hell did you grab a beer? Some of these people are, like, fucking music royalty, man, and if you're trying to make a good impression, Heineken isn't the fucking way to go."

Pete leans back against the couch, smiling grimly at the ceiling. "Because I'm an old washed up rock star and I'm too cool for fancy ass glasses of champagne. Plus beer is fucking good, dude, fuck you."

"Don't get all existential on me now," Patrick tells him, flapping his hand at a waiter until the guy comes over and hands them two glasses. He frowns when Patrick hands him Pete's beer bottle, but takes it anyway, and Patrick shoves the glass into Pete's hand. "You're not old and washed up," Patrick tells him, "you're twenty-six, your music career's just beginning, and you've got a lot ahead of you. So stop being a crybaby, and a killjoy, and fucking drink up and go dance and kiss a pretty girl!" Patrick throws back his whole drink, then stares at Pete expectantly, waiting for him to do the same.

Pete bursts out laughing, obnoxious braying laugh loud in the already loud room, and Patrick scowls at him. Pete shakes his head and says, "Rickster, my dude - I love you, I love you a ton, but you're not that good at motivational speeches."

"I thought it was pretty good, actually." Patrick frowns, slapping Pete's arm when he starts guffawing again. "You're an asshole, man."

"Yeah, but I'm your asshole," Pete giggles, blowing Patrick a kiss. Patrick rolls his eyes and looks away, and Pete laughs again and pats him on the thigh. "It's okay, man, you tried and that's what counts. Speeches are fucking hard, it's okay that you're not, like, MLK or whatever. If he was a ginger little white dude with an unhealthy love for jazz music, of course." He takes a sip of his glass, then sits back against the couch, legs carelessly splayed, watching the dancers with sleepy disinterest while Patrick debates if he should take offense to that. Pete ends up speaking before he has a chance to decide. "Wonder if I should just check in for the night. I'm not needed or wanted here anyway."

"Stop it," Patrick says sharply, because when either of them gets self deprecating, it's the other's job to snap him out of it. "Quit being a little bitch! Go grab a girl and whisk her off her feet and get yourself a kiss!"

"Why a girl?" Pete asks, sipping his champagne with a sour look on his face. He takes a moment to eyeball the glass. "God, I feel like a douche drinking fucking bubbly like this." He glares at the glass for a moment longer before looking back at Patrick and repeating, "Why a girl?"

"Fine, or a dude," Patrick says, sitting back against the couch with his own empty glass nudged between his thighs. "Quit bitching and moaning and fucking do something, dude. You're depressing me."

Pete doesn't move. Patrick gives him a look, but Pete just takes another sip of his champagne and picks at a loose string on his jeans. Patrick huffs to himself, but doesn't get up to leave.

They sit there until midnight draws near; until the countdown begins.

"Ten, nine, eight!"

Patrick leans in close and yells into Pete's ear, "Guess neither of us are getting that kiss, huh?"

"Seven, six, five!" People are shouting, couples are holding each other, getting ready. Pete's eyeing Patrick.

"There's always next year," Patrick says, shrugging to himself and sitting back. "No biggie," Pete thinks he says, but he can't hear over all the commotion.

"...three, two..."

Pete grabs Patrick by the front of his obnoxious purple and orange sweater vest. All he sees is wide blue eyes before he's closing his own and smashing his lips to Patrick's.

"One!" People scream, and the cheers begin.

Patrick doesn't move as the world erupts around them. Pete doesn't either. 

After a short eternity, Pete lets go of Patrick's shirt and pulls away, looking at his friend expectantly.

Patrick presses his fingers to his lips. He blinks a couple of times, then looks up at Pete, who's holding his breath, clearly anxious. Patrick doesn't look mad, but he's also unpredictable as hell.

Finally, he says, "Your lips are chapped and your mouth tastes like that shit beer."

Pete lets out the breath he was holding and snorts, sitting back comfortably again. "You're such a bitch."

Patrick draws his sleeve over his mouth. "Fucking cooties, dude."

"I didn't give you any STIs, you whiny motherfucker," Pete laughs, shaking his head at Patrick. "God, just be happy you got a kiss."

"I knew you were gonna do that, and I was thinking to myself, I was totally thinking, 'If he does it, I'm punching him. I'm punching him right in the face.' Seriously, I was."

"Why didn't you?" Pete leans in, teasingly. "Did you...like it?"

"Nah. I would've, but we have a photoshoot next week and if you had bruises, it'd be suspicious. Otherwise I would've, seriously. In a heartbeat. But I actually think shit through and consider the consequences before I act. Unlike you!"

Pete laughs and playfully shoves at Patrick. "You're such a dick."

"You know how, like, earlier, I called you an asshole and you said, 'But I'm your asshole'? I was totally about to do that to you just now, but then I realized, like, if I called you my dick, that'd just be fucking weird."

"I'm not your dick, no. We are old friends, though, him and I. Charming lad. Well groomed. Smells rather earthy. A little vertically challenged, if you know what I mean."

"Shut the fuck up," Patrick laughs, and Pete laughs too, and as they keep going back and forth like the dick-joke obsessed morons they were, Patrick realizes something. When he comes to this realization, he promptly informs Pete of it.

"Hey," he says.

"What?" is Pete's uninterested reply. He's trying to look through his champagne glass like it's a telescope.

"I realized something."

"Oh no," Pete intones. "A realization? That's not good. Sound the alarm."

"Fuck off. No, seriously, guess what I realized."

"What'd ya realized, Patrick?"

"That you're a terrible fucking kisser and that's why no one wanted to kiss you tonight."

Pete's indignant, of course, even though he's grinning. "Dude, fuck you! I'm a damn good kisser, how the hell would you know? You don't get to rate my kissing skills, that shit wasn't even a real kiss!"

Patrick's drumming on his thighs idly and glancing around nervously. There's a cute pink tinge to his cheeks. He's sweaty or he's embarrassed, Pete's not sure. Although his sideburns are starting to curl just a little. However, Pete prefers the idea that he's embarrassed, so he's just going to stick with that. He looks back out at the crowd of people, wondering where blue-haired girl had gone.

Patrick clears his throat. "So, uh. Is this the part where you offer to give me another sample to rate?"

"It is indeed," Pete says, licking his lips loudly and wetly. As expected, Patrick cringes.

"You're the worst, dude," he says, shaking his head and laughing through mock disgust.

"Yeah," Pete says, watching blue-haired girl and her man make out against the wall. "I kinda am, huh."


End file.
